The Heart Asks Pleasure First
by Kerkerian-Horizon
Summary: When Sherlock comes home after assumedly being dead for two years, neither John Watson's nor his own reactions are what he expected. Johnlock, set post-Reichenbach. Ignores most of season 3.
1. Singular

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock. The story title is borrowed from Michael Nyman, it's one of the pieces from the soundtrack of "The Piano".

Author's notes at the end this time.

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**The Heart Asks Pleasure First**

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Part 1: Singular

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Coming home to John is a difficult affair. Sherlock has planned every single step of it (1. surprise John by being alive, 2. explain, 3. move back in, or rather: stay, because technically never moved out, 4. engage John's help in explaining it to Mrs Hudson), but somehow, it all goes wrong.

John isn't pleasantly surprised at all. Sherlock spent a lot of time imagining his face upon the discovery that his best friend is alive; he couldn't possibly have imagined John's actual expression.

There's disbelief, followed by some rather violent reliving of raw, visible pain, terror even, followed by anger, shouting, followed by uncoordinated grappling. Then John tries to punch Sherlock, and they grapple some more. At one point, they end up on the floor, still in each other's grasp, panting, at a loss what to do next.

Sherlock has forgotten about his plan, because John is shaking and his eyes are wide, and Sherlock notices that he is trembling as well: he didn't think he'd become emotional, but seeing John, even before anything was said or done, was a shock, sending jolts of anxiety and joy and possibly longing through him, and there's too much data to process: he'd forgotten about John's immediate proximity and what it is able to do to him, to his heart and his usually high-functioning brain. He must have deleted it in order to be able to leave, two years ago. Also, their unexpected mutual breakdown is taking him to places from the past two years he doesn't want to revisit: not today, preferably not ever.

He stammers as he tries to explain, all his carefully chosen words unserviceable now because neither John nor himself are even as remotely as calm as Sherlock so wrongly anticipated, and he keeps stumbling over how to put things, making it all sound trivial.

The realization of what a tremendous idiot he has been does not exactly help. He knows John, at least he thought he did, how could he not have expected this? While he planned his fake suicide, he was aware that it was going to hit his friend hard, had actually seen him grieving later on, for heaven's sake, and yet- he had been stupid. Utterly, unforgivably stupid.

* * *

"I'm sorry, John," he manages to add once he's finished outlining his endeavours, "for doing this to you." He actually feels shaken: he'd not forgive anyone if they had done this to him. How can he expect John to?

John however is not like him. Where Sherlock is the dark angel, John is the fair one.

The doctor's hand wanders up to Sherlock's face, as if the visual isn't enough: "I've missed you so terribly," he whispers, and Sherlock closes his eyes: he was lost, untethered while he was away. There were days on which he felt like he was in danger of pushing away from the ground if he wasn't careful, could veer off into space without a chance to ever return. He doesn't know whether it's actually worse now that he's back and John hasn't yet had the chance to make up his mind whether he'll ever forgive Sherlock or hate him for the hell the detective has put him through.

Sherlock is shaking at the prospect of reject; all the time, he's mostly been focusing on getting home at all. None of the many scenarios he imagined about their reunion included the cold fury he read in John's eyes earlier; he expected to have to apologize in some form, but never for John to try and hit him. He can feel the mirroring tremor in John's limbs and realizes that despite it all, it's a momentary relief to be with John; his presence has always had a soothing effect on him.

He's been on Sherlock's mind constantly; the task which the detective'd set himself had required him to cross boundaries even he hadn't crossed before. He felt less than human at times, and it had been the thought of John which had kept him sane, he was certain of that. John had always been human, had always been kind and patient. Now it turns out that his bodily contact is not only comforting as well, but also desirable.

Eyes still closed, Sherlock pushes himself closer to John until their foreheads are touching, his own hand finding John's neck. They stay like that for an unaccounted amount of time, gradually calming down.

* * *

When they let go of each other, John's eyes are brimming: "I'll have you back," he says, hoarsely, "because I can't let go of you again. No matter how angry I am with you right now, it could never match how much I grieved."

At this, Sherlock's eyes begin to sting as well. "Forgive me," he says, very softly, and for once, those words don't sound like the text from a play but like something appropriate, heartfelt. Good God, what is this man doing to him in return? "Please, John."

"I'll give you time, you and me both," John answers, sounding choked. "We'll sort it out."

"What if we can't? Resentment is one of the strongest emotions there are." Sherlock can barely get the words out. He needs some kind of assurance from John, just a few words, even though he knows John couldn't possibly predict what is going to happen.

John looks as though someone has punched him. He sounds timid, exhausted even, but he never takes his eyes off Sherlock: "Love is stronger."

The detective's stomach drops. He's never experienced this, feeling like laughing and crying at the same time, and it's simultaneously wonderful and horrible.

Sherlock lets out a shuddering breath, visibly sagging.

"Hey," John says, taking hold of his shoulder, steadying him. It's what he does, isn't it? It's what he's always been able to give to Sherlock: consistency. Balance.

Both their limbs eventually begin to ache under the strain of being all tangled up, but they soak up each other's closeness and warmth like rays of light, don't even notice that the air in the living room is actually rather chilly.

"Love," Sherlock murmurs, reinforcing his grip on John and pulling him close, meeting no resistance. They wrap their arms around each other and hold on tightly until their trembling subsides.

* * *

Later, they have tea; the kitchen is clean and tidy, no beakers or pipettes lying around anymore. The rest of the flat seems unaltered, even Sherlock's notes are still on their stand by the window, he notices.

They don't speak, but there's a sense of calm. John can't take his eyes off Sherlock, drinking him in, noting every little change, reading him. Sherlock waits for him to finish his scrutiny; his skin is itching, a phantom phenomenon because already he is missing John's touch. He's been absent for so long, but now that he's back, it's suddenly unbearable.

He ponders this, trying to understand: before, they only touched each other when necessary. It had been fine that way, even though Sherlock had sometimes wondered how it'd feel to have John stroking his hair, or even kissing him. He usually subdued those thoughts, though; most of the time, the Work had predominated anyway, and then Moriarty had struck.

There had been moments during his time away in which Sherlock had not been able to subdue how much he missed John, and on those days he had to be extra careful not to slip up, or push away from the ground.

"I wanted for you as well," he hears himself say, and John's pensive expression softens considerably. He isn't wont something like that coming from Sherlock.

"You're tired," the doctor states, half a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth, fleeting but unmistakable.

He's right, obviously getting better at deductions: Sherlock hasn't had any decent sleep for two years.

The emotions are wearing on him as well, though he'd never admit that.

"That's not why I said what I said just now," he says nevertheless, needing to make that clear.

"I know," John gets up. "Still."

He circles the table, reaching for Sherlock's hand and pulling him from his chair. Wordlessly, not letting go of the detective, he pulls him towards his old bedroom, in which John is sleeping nowadays. It's largely unchanged as well, even the framed poster of the periodic table is still there.

Sherlock looks around with a forlorn expression, but he doesn't get to dwell on the surge of homesickness he belatedly experiences, because John pulls him down onto the bed with him, and he willingly entangles himself with the other man once more, sighing almost with relief once they are settled: it's warm and comfortable and John's scent is all around him. This, whatever it is, seems the only sensible thing to do right now.

* * *

They doze for a while; they are weary, but they don't want the oblivion of sleep, they need to be awake for this. They _want_ to be awake for this.

"Tell me I'm not dreaming," John says at one point. "I don't want to wake up and find it's all been in my mind. Or worse, I don't want to wake up and find you have gone back to considering yourself above all human emotions and this was just an exception, a weak moment you gave in to."

"You still think I'm a machine," Sherlock mutters, appalled.

"No," John shakes his head, "and I never really thought so. But you used to be so... detached. On purpose. You let me in, at least on the surface, but you tried to keep out of the more complicated human involvements." Except with Irene Adler, which was different somehow. The memory still leaves a bitter aftertaste on John's tongue; he's still jealous of her, even though it seems childish.

"And yet you had me involved," Sherlock replies, softly, "more than you knew. That day on the roof... if the sniper had shot you, I'd have followed you."

John gasps, the force behind it shaking his torso and reverberating through Sherlock's chest.

"Don't say something like that," he demands. "I want you to live."

"Life is not worth it without you." Sherlock's voice is so quiet now that John has to strain his ears to understand. "I know that now."

"So you understand how it was for me these past two years," John says, some of his anger flaring up again. "It was terrible, Sherlock. It wasn't only the loneliness once you were gone, or how much I wanted you to be there because things just weren't the same without you. I kept thinking about how scared you must have been up there, how terrified by the prospect of jumping, and how awful you must have felt if you felt compelled to end your life. I wished I could have saved you, been there earlier. And I couldn't get rid of that image, seeing you lying there..."

He pauses, doesn't wish to conjure it up right now. "And I wished we hadn't had that row." There are tears running down his cheeks, and he doesn't bother trying to stop them.

"I'm sorry." The slight tremor in Sherlock's voice is genuine. "I'm so sorry." He pushes closer against John, shivering: "I often don't understand other people," he murmurs, "and I don't need anyone else. But you are different."

Giving a watery laugh, John reinforces his grip around him: "So you're saying you need me?"

It takes a moment until Sherlock is able to answer, because he knows that this going to change everything that was. Yet he also knows that he wants that change, and that it has already begun anyway, two years ago.

"Yes," he therefore replies, "I need you."

John shudders, sobbing once more: "And I'm not dreaming?"

"I don't hope so."

"God-" John sounds astonished, breathless. He breathes in and out rather heavily a few times before he speaks again, his words butterflies against Sherlock's temple: "You've no idea how much I love you."

At that, Sherlock's eyes begin to sting again, and something akin to John's sobs from earlier escape him as he struggles to keep his composure. He cranes his neck so he can look at the doctor, whose face is as lovely as he remembers it, even though it has a few more lines and there are tears and a bit of snot right now. It's important, however, that he looks at John while he says this, because he's rarely said it before and it does mark a singular occasion, after all: "I love you too," he states, and this time, his voice doesn't waver at all.

Both of them are breathing heavily now, struck by the immensity of their words and what they imply.

John resolves the puzzle of how to follow up something like that by leaning in and tenderly nuzzling Sherlock's face with his own. Their breaths mingle, and after a moment of silent appreciation, the doctor tentatively kisses the detective. Sherlock closes his eyes in order to be able to focus on the caress of John's lips on his own, the gentle pressure, the affection.

It's easy to reciprocate, and he wonders how it is possible for something to be easy and complicated at the same time. How can John love him and tell him so even though he hasn't yet forgiven him? How can he hold him like this when he wanted to punch him only a few hours before? But those musings are idle right now, because kissing John is doing something to Sherlock's brain which is effectively slowing it down. It still feels good, however, and for once, he doesn't mind that he can't think clearly anymore.

* * *

When they eventually pull back, John regards Sherlock with a rather solemn expression: "I couldn't hate you," he murmurs, "even if I tried."

Sighing, he settles against Sherlock's shoulder, his hand wandering up to the other man's face again, tracing the line of his jaw with one finger.

They stay like that, listening to each other's heartbeat, pondering the novelty of being outspokenly in love with one another.

* * *

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**To Be Continued**

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Thank you for reading, please be so kind to leave some feedback.

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**Author's notes**:

So, things aren't all resolved between them now, and healing takes time, as we all know, but the story's off to a start. Even though I really liked how Moffat and Gatiss wrote it, I love to explore possible other post-Reichenbach scenarios (you might have noticed).

Season 3 has shown us a range of emotions not only on Sherlock's side, but I thought it was astonishing of what our favourite detective is capable of, and, as I have said on other occasions, I do believe that his time away must have changed him in certain regards, and profoundly so. He's too intelligent not to have learned from his experiences.

Furthermore, I'm not a native English speaker, therefore I apologize for any mistakes (I know, I tend to get my tenses wrong).

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	2. Souvenirs

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock. The story title is borrowed from Michael Nyman, it's one of the pieces from the soundtrack of "The Piano".

Thank you for reading and particularly to those who left a comment, I'm glad about that. Well, there are quite a few people on story alert, so there must be some interest in the story, phew! ;D

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**The Heart Asks Pleasure First**

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Part 2: Souvenirs

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"You better not be an apparition," John says to Sherlock after the detective opened his eyes in the small hours of the day. John's voice is soft, full of affection.

Sherlock blinks, slowly lifting his head and wincing at the crick in the neck which makes itself known at the motion. He looks at John's shirt and back at the other's face: "I don't think so," he murmurs, voice rough from sleep, "I drooled on you. Can apparitions do that?"

John chuckles and runs his hand through Sherlock's hair: "Not even the extraordinary ones," he replies.

Sherlock's gaze roams over his face: "Didn't you sleep?" He can't tell; John looks as exhausted as he did when Sherlock first entered the flat.

"I did. Woke up half an hour ago and couldn't get under again." John's eyes smile: "I had too good a sight to behold, it kept me awake."

He looks at the dark smudges underneath Sherlock's eyes; in the early morning light, his skin is so pale it's almost translucent, setting off the contrast more starkly. "Seems like you were put through the wringer," he says.

"No need to doctor me." There's a hint of familiar Sherlockian impatience in his tone.

"I'm not doctoring you. Just saying."

"Hm." Sherlock sighs: "Actually, I might need you to do a little bit of doctoring later."

John raises one eyebrow suggestively, but Sherlock doesn't seem to pick it up. Inwardly grinning, John mentally slaps himself on the fingers while he waits for the detective to go on, which he does, endearingly unaware of the innuendo: "There's a piece of gauze on my back-"

"Yeah, I think I noticed it."

"It feels like it needs changing, and I can't quite reach it."

"Why, what happened?"

"I was undercover and got caught, unfortunately. They weren't too happy about my presence."

John looks alarmed: "Care to elaborate?"

So Sherlock tells him about Serbia and what happened during his thankfully rather brief captivity. He doesn't mention how Mycroft waited to interfere, even though it'd provide a nice distraction.

John is tight-lipped and breathing hard once Sherlock has finished, and he keeps shaking his head: "This is exactly why you should have taken me with you," he says, tone fierce.

"No, John. They'd have killed you, maybe even tortured you before my eyes in order to get the information they wanted."

"I can bloody well look after myself, thank you very much," John snaps. "I'd not have let us get _into_ such a situation in the first place!"

"What, so you think I'm not capable of-"

"Exactly!" John untangles himself from Sherlock rather ungently and gets to his feet. "You're the one who does the clever bits, but I'm the one to make sure you don't get killed first, remember?"

Sherlock blinks in consternation: "_Remember_? When has it ever been like that? I was the one to make sure we didn't get killed at the pool, wasn't I?"

"Oh, that's rich!" John crosses his arms in front of his chest, "considering it was _you_ in the first place who had the stupid idea to meet Moriarty alone, at midnight, at a bloody _pool_, and you even thought you were doing something really smart!"

He storms into the bathroom and violently closes the door behind him.

* * *

Sherlock sags, gingerly easing himself back down on the pillows; his torso aches after a night of forceful cuddling, and his ribs and his back are still very tender.

Oddly enough, he feels a wave of anxiety surging through him; maybe this has indeed been too easy so far.

With his heart beating far too fast, he lies still and listens.

He can hear the toilet flushing and some water running, then the door opens again and John pops his head around the frame: "Are you coming?" he asks grumpily.

In the bathroom, Sherlock pauses, unsure how to proceed. It's an alien feeling, and he hates how he suddenly can't decide what to do with his hands.

John however opens the small first aid kit he keeps in here, and which contains much more than standard first aid supplies. Some of them are beyond their date of expiry by now, but he'll make do with the rest. "Take off your shirt," he murmurs while he sorts through it.

Sherlock doesn't much appreciate the rather defensive position he is in now, but he has realized that he needs to let John have this; his emotions want out and be dealt with. It's what Sherlock has to put up with in return for John's good graces, isn't it? Showing penitence? It's after all the least he can do.

* * *

John's gaze even hardens as he turns to the other man, who is by now shirtless, and sees his upper body. The skin above the ribs escpecially is still multi-coloured with bruises, if not as badly swollen as in the beginning anymore. There are healing cuts and lacerations as well, and overall, Sherlock has lost quite a bit of weight. John had noticed that during the night, of course, inevitably having been poked by the other's bony shoulders and limbs a few times, and Sherlock had felt worryingly slight in his arms.

The detective reads John's thoughts easily: "My back was worse," he says in an attempt to prepare John. "It's much better now. And I've gained a pound."

At that, John seeks his gaze: "When?"

"Mycroft held me hostage for a few days. After someone had seen to my injuries, a private nurse looked after me. I mainly slept at first, but once I was awake, she was very adamant about food."

"Good," John remarks, "remind me to thank her one day."

He falls silent when he sees Sherlock's back, and it takes a moment until he's regained his composure: "Jesus," he murmurs, sounding choked. The whole back is as colourful as the front and additionally covered in wounds, all of which are in different states of healing. Some have been sutured, others have to heal on their own, and there is indeed one which is covered by a large piece of gauze.

John swallows a few times before he can speak: "Did- didn't it hurt when I held you tight?" he wants to know. He sounds feeble, audibly shocked.

"A little," Sherlock admits without turning around. "I didn't want you to stop though."

For a moment, it is completely silent, then he feels a small rush of air, followed by warmth, as John steps closer and puts his arms very cautiously around Sherlock's hips, pressing a kiss on an unblemished spot between Sherlock's shoulderblades before resting his cheek against it; he's got the perfect height for it. "I love you," he breathes, and the sound of it seems to resonate in Sherlock's body, bringing a feeling of relief.

* * *

John's hands are gentle and steady as he removes the old gauze, assesses the wound underneath, applies antiseptic cream and a fresh piece of gauze. He asks Sherlock which kind of pain medication and antibiotics he received and when he's had his last tetanus shot.

"It's healing fine," he says when he's done, "though we've got to be a little more careful not to put too much pressure on it."

Sherlock has never been so grateful for a "we".

* * *

While John sets about making breakfast, Sherlock goes back into his bedroom in order to find some fresh, unrumpled clothes. He is trembling ever so slightly and feeling a little dizzy now, therefore he sits down on the bed instead of sorting out his clothes. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, willing the odd swaying sensation to subside.

"Let me guess," John's voice startles him; he didn't hear the doctor approaching. Who is leaning against the doorframe now, arms folded: "You weren't supposed to get out of bed yet, much less leave."

"I meant it when I used the term _hostage_." Sherlock straightens up, unwilling to show his momentary weakness. "And you're a doctor."

John snorts, sounding a tad amused: "Give Mycroft a call, will you? Just to let him know where you are."

"He very probably already does," Sherlock smirks, "he's had his eye on you all this time."

"Oh goody," John mutters darkly before turning back to the kitchen, "big brother in the most literal sense."

But he's actually hiding a smile.

Sherlock slowly gets to his feet and makes his way over to the wardrobe. All his shirts are still there, his suits, his socks. A shiver runs down his spine: John has been living with a ghost for the past two years, it seems. It's not entirely normal, let alone healthy, to leave a dead person's things just the way they were, is it? On the other hand, he'd probably have done the same if it had been him who'd been left behind.

* * *

John is not paying much attention to what he is doing, he is running on autopilot: partly because he is really tired now, partly because he is pondering everything which has happened and the new information he gained.

He feels a quick little surge of adrenaline when he realizes anew that Sherlock is indeed here, alive and in one piece.

Well. John's heart clenches painfully at the notion what Sherlock has gone through, even though a stubborn little voice inside his head says _he's not the only one who's had a hard time, remember?_

Of course, it's Sherlock own fault- if he weren't so damn proud, he might actually have asked for help before everything went south, could have prepared his friend for what was to come. John purses his lips: he did ask _Mycroft_, of course, and he also asked Molly. The doctor can't deny that it hurts to be left out, he of all people who should have been at Sherlock's side. On the other hand: Sherlock had put a lot of thought into the plan, he calculated everything and even worked with his brother in order to succeed. If he had really deemed it unwise to involve John, he must have had his reasons. Probably. Or maybe he was just pigheaded, as usual, convinced that he needed to protect his friend and that was it.

John sighs, absently turning off the stove: this will take a while to sort out. In the meantime, he'll sort Sherlock out. The notion that he escaped from Mycroft's in order to return here, return to _him_, is somewhat comforting.

Feeling a little better, he takes the tray he has prepared to the bedroom. Sherlock is wearing pyjama pants, an old long-sleeved shirt and his favourite dressing gown and is just closing the door to his wardrobe.

He looks surprised, but John shrugs: "You shouldn't be up yet," he says, "and it looks like you're agreeing."

Sherlock looks down on himself as though seeing his clothes for the first time: "It simply means I don't intend to leave the house today," he states.

"You don't usually wear your pyjama pants all day even if that's the case," John points out and puts the tray down. "Come on."

Sighing theatrically, Sherlock sits down on the bed: "I'm not hungry."

John gives him a stern look: "You'll eat, Sherlock, this is not up for discussion. A bit of scrambled egg on toast and a bit of fruit, otherwise you can't have your pills. I'm assuming you're still on antibiotics in the least, and brought them with you?"

"Yes."

"See? And you really don't want to lose that one pound again."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he complies.

* * *

He keeps watching John while they are eating, something the doctor once was used to and which now feels simultaneously strange and welcome.

"Okay," he invites Sherlock after a while, "shoot."

The detective raises one eyebrow: "Hm?"

"Tell me what you've deduced."

Sherlock doesn't hesitate: "There are more lines around your eyes and mouth, meaning you either laughed or cried a lot. Considering the circumstances, it's very likely the latter, causing you to age a little prematurely. Your hair is slightly longer than usual since you haven't kept up with your monthly routine to go to the barber's, and your mobile phone is switched off, probably not even charged. You wish to be left alone on most days. You still live here, though you left for some time. You came back and are now sleeping in my room. You haven't changed much in the flat, though there's a new electric kettle. You are working in a day clinic now and there's one colleague who keeps flirting with you. You have been-"

"Stop, Sherlock," John raises his hand, "it's okay. I'm glad to see you're still you, but... yeah. It's a bit much. Sorry."

Sherlock, having come to a halt in mid-sentence, slowly closes his mouth.

"You are right," John concedes, "of course you are right. I left for a while, because I couldn't bear it anymore. I rented a dreadful room in a dreadful building just to escape, and it helped a little. Only... _not_ being here was even worse, in the end. Do you know what I mean?"

The detective nods, waiting for him to continue.

"I was lonely, here without you," John murmurs, "but it was still preferable to being without you elsewhere." He can't tell Sherlock how often he opened his friend's wardrobe in order to catch his scent, how often he closed his eyes and strained his memory to hear him play the violin once more.

He looks up, visibly pulling himself together: "No point in dwelling on the pain," he says, eyes roaming over the other man once more with unconcealed affection.

Sherlock hides behind his mug of tea, but his hand finds John's, and for a moment, he just grips it tightly. If he keeps apologizing, he won't sound credible anymore at one point. Fortunately, the doctor seems content with this physical expression that Sherlock understands and knows how difficult it was and still is, even though it can't convey that the detective's mind is actually reeling with all the things he wishes had never happened but can't undo.

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**To Be Continued**

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Thank you for reading, please be so kind to leave some feedback.

o


	3. Technicalities

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock. The story title is borrowed from Michael Nyman, it's one of the pieces from the soundtrack of "The Piano".

My thanks, as always!

o

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**The Heart Asks Pleasure First**

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Part 3: Technicalities

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After breakfast, Sherlock follows John into the kitchen: "Where did you put my equipment?" he asks.

"It's all in a box," John replies, "neatly wrapped up and labelled by Mrs Hudson. She's put it in the basement." He's fairly certain that their landlady never went through with her plan to donate it to a school, though he hasn't set foot in 221C once.

"Hm," Sherlock's gaze roams over the shelves; slowly, he ambles on into the living room. He looks at things, letting their familiarity emphasizing the feeling of being home, but the only item he actually touches is the violin.

"Better not play it yet," John advises, "Mrs Hudson will hear you and probably get a heart attack." He sounds completely calm now.

Running his index finger along the smooth wood, Sherlock smiles ever so briefly: "I won't."

John joins him at the window: "She'll be coming up anyway," he says. "She's been looking in on me every day. Well, whenever I was here." She may actually have saved him from starving during those first few weeks, which albeit he wisely doesn't mention.

* * *

Sherlock is glad that Mrs Hudson was there, just as he is glad that John didn't move out permanently.

"Should I go down to see her?" he now wonders aloud; John is better at judging these things than he is.

"No, definitely not." John frowns: "I should prepare her first." He looks up at Sherlock: "And you should be in bed anyway."

"You weren't so adamant about that yesterday," Sherlock grumbles.

"I didn't know half of it yesterday," John counters. "And in all fairness- the circumstances were rather unfavourable, don't you think?"

"Maybe. I'm sorry for springing it on you like that."

"Yeah. It's what you do. We don't want to spring it on Mrs Hudson, however."

Another "we": Sherlock feels vaguely compelled to count them.

Gently, John pushes Sherlock in the direction of the bedroom: "Off you go. I'll quickly do the dishes, then I'll join you."

"In bed?"

"On the bed."

"Oh. I'll be _on_ the bed as well, then."

"No, you won't. You will be _in_ bed, as ordered by your doctor."

"But I'm not really ill, why can't I stay _on_ the bed? Or on the sofa?" John stares at him; Sherlock might not be feeling ill, but he looks far from healthy. He knows better than to discuss it with him though: "Fine. You can stay _on_ the bed. You can't stay on the sofa in case Mrs Hudson comes in."

"I could hide."

"Where?"

"_Behind_ the sofa maybe?"

"Now this is getting ridiculous. Come on, chop-chop!"

"Who's being ridiculous now?" Sherlock mutters, but he complies.

* * *

When John enters the bedroom ten minutes later, he finds Sherlock _in_ bed, sans his dressing gown.

"Oh? Fatigue catch up with you?" he can't but tease.

"It's cozier this way," Sherlock replies, somewhat evasively; upon easing himself down on the mattress, he realized that he actually is rather weary. It resembles how he usually feels after two days into an intense case when sleep is something he simply can't permit himself.

Carefully, he arranges himself to lie on his side: "I'm not going to stay in bed all day," he informs John.

Whose gaze is unmistakably affectionate: "It's not even eight in the morning yet. We'll see."

Sherlock ignores the remark, raising the blankets with one hand instead: "Care to join me?" His voice is soft, any hints of insecurity there might be are ever so subtle. He doesn't know the boundaries of their... togetherness yet, can't quite fathom what John might want, or not.

The doctor shakes his head: "I'm going to have a shower first." He'll also call in sick at the clinic; he hasn't done so before, and he really can't leave the house now, or for the immediately foreseeable future.

"And then you'll join me?"

John smiles and turns towards the door. He rather abruptly pauses, however: "Didn't you wear your coat?" he asks as though suddenly having noticed its absence.

"No." Sherlock's voice is clipped. "Mycroft thought hiding it would prevent me from leaving."

Grinning and shaking his head, John disappears in the bathroom.

* * *

Sherlock has dozed off when the doctor comes back in with still damp hair and in fresh clothes. He stayed in the shower much longer than anticipated; it's the first one since Sherlock's faked suicide he truly enjoyed, since it was not going to be followed by a dull, empty day in a world which had lost its appeal.

Cautiously, trying not to shake the mattress too much, John slips under the covers. He has mixed feelings about this: a small part of him wants to keep Sherlock's at arm's length, which admittedly would translate into petty yet effective revenge; the other, larger part of him wants to be as close to him as possible, to just hold him and never let go again.

Sherlock briefly opens his eyes as the doctor gently snuggles close, shifting a little until his cheek rests on John's shoulder again, just as they woke up earlier. It's with natural ease and small sighs of contentment that they melt against each other.

"See," Sherlock mutters, pressing his nose against the material of John's shirt, "now we're both _in_ bed."

John chuckles, tenderly holding him close: "Better than behind the sofa," he answers, eliciting an amused but already faint snort as Sherlock is already slipping back into sleep.

John needs a while until he can close his eyes; he keeps one hand on Sherlock's ribs where there are the least bruised, taking stock of the rhythmic motion of the other's breathing. He doesn't know how they'll proceed from here. Sherlock's name has been cleared, of course, which he's relieved about, and once it's out of the bag that he's back, he'll probably want to take cases again.

Lestrade had quite early on told him that the Chief Superintendent was not going to press the matter further either, something which reeked of Mycroft Holmes' influence and to this day still does.

John's heart accelerates at the notion that they might soon be working together again, Sherlock and he. His thoughts stray to all the other things they might be doing together in the future, which only makes his heart beat even faster. He has no idea if Sherlock has any experience at all, or if he is even interested in the physical side of a relationship. John's own experiences with men, of which there have been few and far between, are dating back to his student days. He doesn't worry about it, though, they'll figure it out. Right now he's happy with just this, having Sherlock in his arms while the detective is sleeping. How he managed to shut down his usually overactive mind so quickly is beyond John, though Sherlock has probably got a backlog.

John peers down at him, drinking in the sight; he could lose himself in just looking at Sherlock, who in John's opinion is the most beautiful man that ever lived. Even from this angle, John can't tear his gaze away for quite a while. Sherlock's quiet, regular breathing dampens John's shirt, but he doesn't mind, on the contrary: it makes the moment real. With another sigh, John rests his head against the detective's curls and closes his eyes.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes steeples his hands underneath his chin, unaware that he is subconsciously imitating his brother. "He must have been desperate to get away if he went without his coat." He shakes his head, frowning: "He has always been so stubborn."

His personal assistant knows better than to interrupt or even smile.

"Maybe I should have gotten John Watson here," Mycroft continues, "I just wasn't sure how he'd take it. He was, after all, entirely unprepared."

The way his frown is still deepening tells Anthea that her boss wishes they'd at least have kept the audio in the flat. He is curious at times, Mycroft Holmes, though he'd never admit it. He watches people as someone would watch a group of monkeys, despite their will impressed by the animals' cleverness and yet knowing it's nothing like their own.

"Do you want to send it to him?" Anthea asks when her boss remains silent, but he shakes his head: "No. I think I'll deliver it in person. This afternoon, in fact, after the meeting with the prime minister."

"Very well, sir." With a professionally blank face, Anthea makes a note of it.

* * *

John is startled out of his slumber when Sherlock begins to stir; he is mumbling something unintelligible and moving about restlessly, his body trembling and tense for a few minutes. John strokes him and hums soothingly into his hair: "Just a dream, Sherlock."

With a suddenly released breath, Sherlock opens his eyes, staring ahead unfocused for a moment: "John?" he then murmurs, flexing his hand which is lying on the doctor's belly.

"I'm here," John gently reinforces his embrace, pressing a kiss into the dark tangle of curls.

"I couldn't remember the right words," Sherlock mutters, obviously still tangled up in the remnants of his dreams, "all language was erased by pain."

John feels like weeping.

A tremor runs through Sherlock's body: "It would have been easy to give in." He falls silent, his hand motionless now. John picks it up, tenderly wrapping his own fingers around Sherlock's, and holds it close: "I'm glad you didn't," he murmurs. There's a faint but unmistakable pressure on his hand, which he returns. It seems they are doing this a lot now, haptics complementing the rest of their communication.

"Was close, though."

Is Sherlock questioning his abilities now? John knows how that feels. After having been shot, he spent countless hours in his hospital bed wondering if he could have prevented it. It's normal to revisit one's experiences, after all, though John also knows how it feels to be reprimanding yourself.

"But you succeeded," he says softly. "You were stronger than the pain."

Sherlock gives a feeble huff. The question he has been asking himself ever since his escape is whether he'd actually managed to get out of there. It had been only a small victory to get his interrogator to leave, and that had actually taken far too much effort. At that point, he'd not been able to even try and get his feet under him. If the second man hadn't been Mycroft but another Serbian, he'd very likely not have been able to free himself, his stamina having been weakened by days without sleep and food already, and that had been before the interrogation.

The knowledge that Mycroft had indeed come at the right time and is fully aware of that is not only annoying but also smarting quite a bit.

He concentrates on the present, on John's warm hands, his breath in Sherlock's hair, his beating heart. All those details provide a welcome anchor to the here and now, a reality he craves to keep.

* * *

Mrs Hudson walks up the stairs as quietly as she can, avoiding the creaking spots and going slowly, listening all the while. She thought she'd heard John talking last night, maybe he had someone over. It happens rarely, almost never, and she is always happy for him when it does. He is too lonely, too sad. Along with Sherlock, he seemed to have lost the will to live his life; he is merely functioning these days, no matter what his friends have tried to change that. He just won't come out of his shell anymore, not even for her. He'd sit through it whenever she had tea or dinner with him, but he'd barely talk, rarely smile.

She heaves a sigh: this is what a truly broken heart looks like, she thinks. If only Sherlock had known how strongly he'd been loved, maybe he wouldn't have... she interrupts her train of thoughts at this point, because it's too hard to think about, even now. Sniffling a little, she continues negotiating her way upstairs.

The flat is silent, which is not unusual; cautiously, she opens the door to the kitchen and looks around. It's clean and tidy, but her keen eyes notice that there aren't just one mug and one plate on the draining board but several, in fact. Huh. She listens again; she didn't hear John leave for work today, so he must still be sleeping. Hopefully he's not ill. Well, she'll make him some breakfast, it's past ten already. He usually doesn't sleep that long.

* * *

She's just about to turn to go when the door to the bedroom opens, and the doctor appears. His shirt is a bit creased and there is a dark hair on his shoulder which is definitely not his, but he is fully dressed.

"Oh, John," Mrs Hudson chirps, "I didn't mean to wake you. I was just going to make breakfast." She glances to the open bedroom door and back to him, clearly curious.

John runs a hand through his hair, looking a bit sheepish. She can't quite place it, but she hurries to reassure him: "It's okay," she whispers, "I'll just scoot if you've got someone here." She smiles conspiratorically.

"No, no," John clears his throat. "It's actually good that you're here, Mrs Hudson." He doesn't seem at ease though, and now _he_ glances back towards the bedroom. Something definitely is very strange.

John seems to have gathered his thoughts now: "Why don't you sit down," he begins, clearing his throat once more.

"There's something I've got to tell you."

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**To Be Continued**

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Thank you for reading, please be so kind to leave some feedback.

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	4. Terms of Endearment

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock. The story title is borrowed from Michael Nyman, it's one of the pieces from the soundtrack of "The Piano".

Thank you, lovelies, for reading and reviewing. A quick heads up: better get out your hankies for this one.

Enjoy!

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**The Heart Asks Pleasure First**

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Part 4: Terms of Endearment

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Mrs Hudson stretches out her hand and takes hold of the table's edge without even looking at it, her eyes are fixed on John: "What is it?" she asks feebly, clearly anxious.

Which somehow makes John's task even more difficult, and all the words he had prepared are eluding him now, leaving his mind blank for a moment.

"John, dear, what _is_ it?"

"Sherlock's here." It comes out in a blur, a rush of breath.

Mrs Hudson keeps staring at him, tilting her head ever so slightly. She clearly thinks he has gone round the bend, so he quickly continues: "I mean it. He... surprised me yesterday, nearly gave me a heart attack. You know him, he's not very subtle sometimes. Anyway, the fact is that he isn't dead, he faked it, and he's very much alive." He knows he sounds like he's rambling, and now Mrs Hudson's eyes are full of tears. Her free hand wanders up to her mouth: "John, I-"

"He's not mad." Sherlock's deep baritone has them both freezing on the spot. John because he thinks it's too early for Sherlock to reveal himself, Mrs Hudson because she doesn't think she can believe her ears. But now Sherlock enters the kitchen, slightly rumpled and in his blue dressing gown, very close to looking as he always did, and John's heart swells with love at the sight of him.

Mrs Hudson's eyes widen a bit more, and her grip on the table visibly tightens. Her face has lost its colour, but she remains standing as she looks from Sherlock to John and back, even though she is swaying a little. Just in case, John moves over to stand next to her.

"Sher-" she tries, swallowing hard, "am I dreaming this?"

"No," Sherlock replies, stepping closer. "You're wide awake. John told you the truth, I faked my suicide."

"But..." she is too shaken to gather her thoughts, "why..."

"It's a rather long story," Sherlock says softly. "I'll explain it to you, in due time."

Mrs Hudson keeps staring at him, and then, to John's and Sherlock's mutual surprise, she draws herself up to her full height and folds her arms in front of her chest: "No, young man," she says, tersely, "you'll explain it right now."

"Mrs Hudson," John begins, because he has inkling why Sherlock wanted to postpone it, but the old lady interrupts him: "Don't you even _begin_ to defend him," she admonishes him. "I don't know what he told you in order to win you over so quickly, but it must have been convincing. Now I want to hear it as well."

John doesn't give up so easily:"You have no idea what he's been through," he says with all the calmness he can muster.

Mrs Hudson gasps: "What _he's_ been through?" she asks, turning towards Sherlock: "Let me tell you what _John_'s been through after your... death. Believe me, it wasn't easy for any of us, but John nearly broke, Sherlock! There were days on which I didn't dare to leave him alone because I didn't know what he'd..."

Her voice wavers, but she doesn't heed John's attempts to hush her: "For months, he didn't eat and he didn't sleep. He yelled at everyone who tried to reason with him. He broke my best teapot when I suggested that we'd maybe clear out a few of your things to make it easier. He scared me, Sherlock, I hardly knew him anymore. You haven't been there, but I have. So please excuse me if I want to know what gave you the right to do something like that to him. To all of us!" She is in tears now, and when she falls silent, the room seems to be holding its breath.

Sherlock is standing with his head slightly bowed; his whole body is tense, and John, who is flushed with exasperation and anger and helplessness, wishes this whole situation was over and dealt with already.

He doesn't know what's worse: that Mrs Hudson, from her point of view, is right, or that he still feels sorry for Sherlock because he now knows exactly just how bad off John has been.

"In short," Sherlock eventually says, not looking at anyone, and the tension in his voice tells John that he's barely able to get the words out, and it breaks John's heart,"there were three snipers trained on John, Lestrade and you, Mrs Hudson. They were to shoot you if I didn't kill myself."

Mrs Hudson gasps again, covering her mouth with her hand; she's already been crying, but it is clear that she is truly shaken now.

"And to answer you follow-up question," Sherlock continues, still not meeting her gaze, "I couldn't tell him afterwards because I'd have compromised his safety. You remember James Moriarty; he was behind all this. Only one little slip could have proved fatal, for any of us. I had to leave England and take down his criminal network, which was widespread and intricate. I succeeded only last week. When I came back, I asked John for his forgiveness. I have been made aware of what I've done to him, and to you. I can't undo it, but I am apologizing for it." Sherlock sounds weary now: "Is that an explanation you can accept?"

Mrs Hudson dabs at her eyes with a hanky she's pulled out of her sleeve: "Well," she says, her voice trembling,"well." She purses her lips, shaking her head: "Forgive me if I did you injustice, but I think we're even now."

At that, Sherlock finally looks up at her, and there's the tiniest pull at the left corner of his mouth. John breathes a sigh; he'll probably never fully understand how the relationship of these two works.

Mrs Hudson now closes the distance between them and pulls Sherlock into her arms, effectively breaking his defensive stance by holding him tight with surprising strength. He almost relaxes into her embrace, stooping a little because she is so much smaller than he, and also to decrease the considerable pressure on his back. They are both trembling now; whereas Mrs Hudson is overwhelmed by relief and tentative elation, Sherlock is shaken by the new knowledge he gained. Nevertheless, he allows the old lady to hold him longer than he usually is comfortable with and even though his spine is tingling with dread; this moment is proof of their reciprocative absolution, and he knows that he needs that as much as he needs John's.

"My darling," Mrs Hudson whispers. "That we've really got you back."

* * *

She can only tear herself away because she's got a "hip appointment" half an hour later.

"John, dear," she says, "come with me for a moment, will you?"

It's the least thing John wants; as soon as Mrs Hudson had turned away from Sherlock, he looked devastated, which didn't bode well. Also, John doesn't appreciate her exposing his situation to Sherlock like that, even if he understands why she revealed it.

"I'm sorry, love," she accordingly says as soon as they are out of earshot, "I was so... he..." She can't seem to find the right words.

"I know."

"I hope I didn't make it worse now."

"Made what worse?"

"Sherlock. Feeling guilty."

John sighs; he should be much angrier with her than he is. She has done so much for him, and before, for Sherlock as well. Considering the way either of them treated her sometimes, she's got every right to put her foot down for once. He just wishes it hadn't been this, now. Not when Sherlock seems so fragile. Wishes she had given him the chance to explain first. And yet, John hears himself reassuring her: "He'll be all right," he says with more conviction than he feels, "we'll... get there."

She isn't entirely convinced, he can see it in the way she pats his arm as she turns to go: "I'll be back around noon, if you need me."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." With a lopsided smile, John nods at her, then he walks back upstairs.

* * *

Sherlock is nowhere in sight, and he isn't in the bedroom or the bathroom either. Slowly, John makes his way up to his old room, and just as he's assumed, the door is locked from the inside.

"Sherlock," he says, softly.

There is no answer.

"Sherlock, please open the door."

After five more minutes, he sits down on the steps: "I'm here if you need me," he says, resting his chin on his knee.

It was easy to make himself forget about those dreadful first few months. Hearing Mrs Hudson talking about it had caused a churning sensation in his stomach, reminding him of all the things he doesn't want to be reminded of, such as the bouts of violence he had when it all became too much. He is ashamed of that now, and he just realized that he owes Mrs Hudson a replacement for her teapot. She never lost a word about it afterwards, so he suppressed the memory of that particularly nasty day along with many others.

* * *

Listening to Mrs Hudson back there in the kitchen, Sherlock felt as though someone was pulling a rug out from under his feet. Hearing about the matter from John was one thing, but hearing it from someone else's perspective, someone who had no intention to go easy on him right then was a completely different affair. The realization that he had been stupid was there again, only a hundred times worse.

His mind is reeling; all the reasons he had had, all the initial factors which had caused him to act like he had, suddenly don't seem to make sense any more. He and his brother, two of the most brilliant minds in the country, and they had still not been able to prevent John from suffering unnecessarily. How could he not have seen it coming, especially after he had witnessed John's speech at the cemetery, the first time he had visited the grave after the funeral and the last time Sherlock had cast his eyes on John before leaving the country. How could he have blundered on without looking back? Had it really been so impossible to contact John, if only once?

He wraps his arms around himself without noticing it, shivering due to something other than coldness.

* * *

An hour goes by, and John's limbs begin to ache from his quite uncomfortable crouch on the stairs, but he does not want to leave Sherlock. He has been listening carefully, worried about what the detective might do, but it remained silent. At least there is nothing in his old room except a bed and an empty wardrobe.

"Sherlock," John tries again after another half hour. "Please. Talk to me?"

No answer is forthcoming.

"Don't hide from me."

Silence.

"Please, Sherlock. Don't do this to me."

At this, he thinks he hears something. The tiniest sound, like someone exhaling strainedly and trying not to be heard.

"I love you, Sherlock. Nothing's changed about that."

Sherlock's voice, muffled by the door between them, sounds choked as he speaks: "How can you even want me?" he asks, and there is so much grief and sorrow and remorse in his tone that it breaks John's heart all over again.

"I'm despicable, John, I hurt you so badly and didn't even realize it. In fact, I didn't even realize the full extent when we talked about it, or when I saw that you had kept all of my things, even my clothes."

There are a few heartbeats of speechlessness.

"You're not despicable!" John then insists, wishing he could touch Sherlock. "Yes, you hurt me, but you had a reason for it. A bigger reason, I mean, you didn't mean to hurt me at all." Rambling again, he reminds himself, but it is hard to find the right words when the silence one speaks into is so overwhelming. "I've already told you that love is stronger than resentment. I want you, Sherlock. I want you because no matter how many stupid things you do, you're wonderful to me."

"I'm not wonderful," Sherlock's voice is feeble now, trembling. "I'm not good for anyone. Mycroft was right."

A wave of anxiety runs down John's spine. "Sherlock, please. Open the door."

Once more, there's only silence.

John sags, feeling tears welling up in his eyes; he is exhausted, and this is difficult.

"Please," he repeats, and something in his failing voice must have reached Sherlock in his despair, because there is movement on the other side, and a few seconds later, the door opens.

Sherlock's eyes are red-rimmed and his face is white, his expression aggrieved.

They look at each other for what seems like an eternity, trying to fathom the damage, and it is in this moment that John suddenly knows he has already forgiven Sherlock, has no intention or reason to hold his grudge any longer. They have lost too much time already, have suffered enough.

He scrambles to his feet and pushes the door further open and simply pulls Sherlock into his arms, holding on tight just like Mrs Hudson did: "You're odd and different and remarkably uncomprehending at times," he says, and it comes out in strange little hiccups because he is so close to tears, "but it's what's making you _you_."

"How can you love me?" Sherlock asks, voice so tight once more he can barely speak, and there is nothing guarded about him anymore, he is as bare and vulnerable as he can get.

John cautiously reinforces his embrace; Sherlock feels frail and precious in his arms. "Because you're lovely," he whispers, still hiccuping a little, "you're lovely, Sherlock. I don't know how I could _not_ love you."

"I caused you so much pain." The detective is whispering now; those words hurt worse the louder they are spoken.

"But you also gave me so much." John begins to weep, he cannot prevent it. "You pulled me out of such misery, Sherlock, I think that's the first time you saved my life."

"And then I made it even worse."

"Stop," John's voice nearly gives out. "Stop it. You're here now, I'm so, so happy about that. I meant it when I said that I want you!"

Sherlock pulls back a little in order to look at John:"What if I hurt you again? There's no guarantee that I won't, you know I tend to disregard other people's feelings." His voice is as unsteady as John's.

"I know. You won't. And if you do, I'll punch you."

"How can you take this so lightly?"

_Because tragedy and comedy are as tightly woven together as your soul and mine_, John thinks. "Sometimes I don't understand you," he whispers, "but there are other times when I think I know you better than you know yourself. And there's one fact I'm sure about, Sherlock."He tries to smile, a beautiful thing despite the tears. "You wouldn't worry about it if you didn't care about me."

For a moment, Sherlock just stares at him, then he begins to sob uncontrollably, his whole body is shaking. It is as though all the pain from the past two years, all the bereavement, all the nightmares are bearing down on him. John has seen him crying in various situations, but except for one, those have never been real tears. These however are coming straight from the darkest spot in his soul, the bottomless pit where suffering and agony are kept.

"Shhh," John runs his hand through Sherlock's hair, tries to calm him. "It's okay, Sherlock." Talking is even more difficult now, because he cannot stop sobbing himself. He pulls the detective close again, holding him tight as long as it lasts. Seeing Sherlock breaking down like this is distressing, even though his inner doctor tells him that it is probably doing Sherlock good to let go. "You'll be okay, darling," John murmurs into Sherlock's curls, unaware that he is using the same term of endearment as Mrs Hudson earlier.

* * *

They stay like that once the tears subside; Sherlock eventually stills and just allows himself to be held. John counts the warm puffs of breath against his skin, savouring the feeling, slowly calming down as well.

"I kept your clothes because they still had your scent," he murmurs, "and for no other reason."

Sherlock exhales with a slight shudder this time, maybe an aftershock of his tears: "I'd understand if you didn't forgive me at all." His voice is hoarse, feeble.

John gently shifts them until they sit up straight and can look at each other, though Sherlock doesn't quite meet the doctor's gaze at first, probably embarrassed.

"How cold-hearted do you think I am?" John asks, and there's so much affection in his voice that it gives Sherlock the goosebumps.

The detective bristles a tiny bit: "Well, _I_-"

"No," John says firmly, "you wouldn't have kept up the resentment either, if the situation were reversed."

"But-"

"I'm not Mycroft."

"True." He sniffles a bit, finally looking up to meet John's gaze: "So you've forgiven me?" His voice is small.

"Yes, you idiot," John smiles,"can't you deduce it? Of course I have."

Sherlock looks at him with an expression of mingled relief and surprise:"That was quick," he murmurs.

"Don't push your luck."

"No," Sherlock is serious as he says it. "I don't intend to."

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**To Be Continued**

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Thank you for reading! Please be so kind to leave some feedback.

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